


No Salad

by AdamantSteve



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Eating, Food, Gen, M/M, did I really write 1200 words about salad?, salad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:24:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/pseuds/AdamantSteve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint doesn't like to eat salad, Phil does. They eat a bunch of salad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Salad

**Author's Note:**

> Un beta'ed
> 
> This was meant to be a 500 word drabble but I kept going on and on and still didn't really wrap it up all that satisfyingly.

The food in the cafeteria at SHIELD HQ was really bad. It was however, free. It allegedly had all the relevant vitamins and minerals a growing agent needs, so no one went hungry, but that was the closest thing to a compliment that it would ever receive.

 

The food was so bad that it grew it's own mythology, adopted by the cafeteria staff themselves so that they offered 'Fury Eyeballs' and made the custard intentionally lumpy just so the never-answered question of 'what are the lumps?' could forever be asked by new recruits. Mop-noodles (grey, flavourless spaghetti in a watery sauce) was a favourite for foolish young agents to dare one another to eat, and since there was a wealth of it left over after most shifts, it was freely given over for evening food-competitions.

 

The food Clint Barton had grown up with in his various not-quite-homes had been bad too, but never in such freely given quantities, and he was fondly dubbed the 'garbage disposal' by the cafeteria boss, since he offered to finish off pretty much anything left at the end of a day. He put on real weight for the first time in his life in the few months after his settling in and frequently beat all-comers in the eat-offs. It was all _bad_ , but it was all edible. And if there was one thing that Clint loved other than shooting arrows, it was eating til he could barely move. 

 

There was _salad_ , but who wanted that? That went untouched and unloved and Clint assumed it was just there for colour til he accompanied his handler to lunch one day.

 

Coulson was a quintessential G-man in the most pressed of suits, and got on Clint's case about his 'horrific' food choices one afternoon when he'd fallen into a post-lunch nap in the back of an ethics seminar. He asked for an entire plate of the limp looking salad and Clint rolled his eyes and had a heaping portion of chilli and some overly colourful rice. They sat across from one another and Clint watched as already sliced tomatoes were cut into smaller and smaller pieces and neatly eaten by Coulson as he sloppily shovelled his own food down. Clint was done before the sad plate of leaves was even done being dissected. 

 

"Are you gonna eat _all that_?" he joked, and was taken aback when Coulson actually pushed his plate towards him and told him to take it. He begged it off, claiming he was too full now and in any case, it would be unfair to deprive such a dainty butterfly of it's nectar, feeling stupid as soon as he said it. He sat and watched as the man worked his way slowly but efficiently through his salad. He was the slowest eater Clint had ever seen. He was like a snail, laboriously working on a lettuce leaf. The worst of it all was that it made Clint actually _want_ the damn salad. Salad! Clint Barton didn't eat _salad_. Coulson was making ridiculous little sounds too, like a slice of cucumber with some bits of cress on it could even taste of _anything,_ let alone anything that good. 

 

Clint watched as Coulson licked his lips - for no discernible _reason_ since there was no dressing, no residue or sauce to go anywhere - and tried to process his own sudden interest in soggy looking salad. Coulson's eyes were closed for crying out loud! Coulson, who probably _sleeps_ with his eyes open, closing them over some garden clippings! 

 

"There is no way that tastes _that_ good, Coulson." Clint snapped suddenly, when his pink tongue traced his lips again. "It's an acquired taste," Coulson smugly replied. "You're out of your mind." Clint said, getting up and leaving his tray in the tiniest act of rebellion, for some reason irritated. _Stupid salad. Such a goddamn salad eater. Salad eating jerk._

 

Clint refused to try salad from then on, even though Coulson's salad-orgasms got even more over the top. He began to retaliate, slurping mop-noodles in as sexy a way as he could, which wasn't very. Clint laughed at Coulson for his hatred of 'actual food' whilst Coulson just cocked an eyebrow at Clint's refusal of 'nature's bounty'. They would sneak tiny bits of their own food onto one another's plates when the other wasn't looking, and they would eat around the leaf or misshapen meatball on their plate without mention. 

 

Another food-competition brewed one evening, and the kitchen stewards wanted to know if Clint wanted in. He turned to Coulson. "If you beat me I'll eat your crappy salad for a month." Coulson looked blandly at him and breathed slowly out before answering. "What if you win?"

"You have to take me to dinner at the greasiest, crappiest place I can find." 

 

Somehow, Coulson won. 

 

The first salad was edible, which was as far as Clint would go. Coulson brought it to him and then watched him eat it, amused and insufferably smug, eating a brick of some solid pasta bake thing. The food Coulson was served seemed to grow more attractive as the days went by, and Clint was sure he was bribing the cafeteria staff for preferential treatment. But the salads started having croutons in them after the first week - a welcome distraction, and the tomatoes seemed perhaps to grow tastier, though it was most likely just Stockholm Salad Syndrome or something. The lettuce did have a nice crunch though, and the cucumber _was_ rather nicely fresh-tasting even if it was slimy. Little bottles of vinagrette began to appear in Clint's locker, and a knowing smirk was all Coulson would give him when he asked if it was him leaving them there. 

 

When there were only a few days left of Salad Month, Coulson asked, over what looked like a goddamn filet mignon, if Clint had grown a new love of salad, and even if Clint maybe, slightly, a _tiny_ bit had, he still said no. "What are you looking forward to after this?" Coulson asked, and Clint replied before the question was even all the way out. "Bacon cheeseburger and fries. I've been having _wet dreams_ about them. With really crispy bacon? There's a place the other side of the city. Oh _god_." And Clint went on to regale Phil - and somehow he'd become Phil in this greenery-laced time - with all the lurid wonders of his most favourite burger place. When he was done, Phil was grinning, and suddenly Clint didn't know what was happening, because that was a nice smile on Phil's face and it was directed right at him.

 

"You wanna go?" Phil asked without even looking at his watch. "Now?" Clint answered with his fork halfway between plate and mouth. Phil shrugged. "Sure, if you want."

 

So if you asked Clint what his favourite food was, he would most likely say, "whatever there's an assload of", or perhaps "bacon cheeseburger", or in a drunkenly lewd moment, "cock", but it was simple cut up fresh vegetables with a dash of some kind of dressing, perhaps some croutons or cheese grated over it, bacon if you had the time to really crisp it up, and some bread on the side... served up with a tiny smile from one Phil Coulson - _that_ was his real favourite meal. Eventually.

 


End file.
